


Bilinski's Personal Poltergeist

by augopher



Series: Tumblr Dialogue Prompt Event March 2015 [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Ghost!Coach, Humor, M/M, Minor Character Death, Prompt Fill, Stiles is haunted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2015-03-05
Packaged: 2018-03-16 12:32:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3488390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/augopher/pseuds/augopher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greenberg's errant arrow in gym class took out Coach for good. So why is the man's ghost haunting Stiles? Good freaking question.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bilinski's Personal Poltergeist

**Author's Note:**

> Part 3/5 of my tumblr Dialogue Prompt Event.  
> Prompt: For your prompt event: Either #7 or #13 with Coach. I don't care how you do it, just use Coach. I know how much you like him. :)  
> I forgot to say in the last ask about Coach. If you use number 7, change Isaac to Greenberg.  
> 7) “If I die tonight, donate all my organs to those in need, except for my middle finger- give that to Greenberg.”  
> 13) ”Don’t tell me how to live my life.”  
> “You’re a ghost. Live isn’t really the word I’d use.”

“Aw Hell, another one? Why can’t any of you miscreants shoot straight? Especially you, Greenberg! You are my worst nightmare. Seriously.” Coach Finstock groaned before collapsing on the ground. “What are the odds I’d get shot by not one, but two arrows in my lifetime? This is the twenty-first century not the Middle Ages.” **  
**

Scott took off his cross country jacket and held it around the wound, trying to staunch the bleeding. This time, instead of hitting his abdomen, the arrow stuck out of Coach’s chest. He applied firm pressure.

“Jesus Christ, McCall! Your hands made of lead?” He sputtered, blood pooling on his lips. “Of all the ways I could have died over the years. Exposure, serial killer, mystery illness, alcohol, and oh yeah, arrow number one…” His eyes grew glassy, and when Scott tried to draw pain away from the man, he found none.

Weakly, Coach continued his death tirade, latching hold of Stiles’ hand. “If I die, Bilinski, make sure they donate all my organs to those in need, except for my middle finger- give that to Greenberg.” Memorable, yes, but eloquent final words they were not.

 

*   *   *   *   *

 

Stiles sat at his desk, headphones on, fingers tapping away at the keys. He felt pretty confident about his paper on how the characters of Kublai Khan and Marco Polo in Invisible Cities differed from those he’d read in other novels. As he put the finishing touches on his essay, he closed his laptop cover, and almost had a heart attack when he turned around. “Jesus, Derek. How long have you been sitting there?” He covered his pounding heart with his hands.

Derek hung his jacket on the back of Stiles’ computer chair. “I just got here. Didn’t you hear the front door close?”

Stiles pointed to the headphones around his neck. “No, I didn’t, and I am pretty sure you gave me a minor heart attack. Trying to kill me?”

Derek leaned in and kissed him. “Of course not. That is pretty much the opposite of my intention.”

“Well, you’ll need to stop,” he shuddered as Derek nuzzled at his neck, kissing along his jaw, “sneaking up,” he panted, “on me, then.”

“M’sorry. I’ll try to be a good boy.” Derek mumbled against the skin of his neck, as he guided him to the bed.

“Uh huh, you keep telling yourself that.” Stiles tugged Derek’s shirt off over his head, and in no time, they had both shed their clothes in a frenzy. “Unf, is not having a gag reflex just a werewolf thing?” Stiles arched his back as Derek swallowed him down.

“That’s beautiful, boys. What’s a guy gotta do to get a drink around here?”

Stiles flailed almost kneeing Derek in the face as he scooted across the bed in a fright and scrambled to cover himself with the flat sheet. He’d been damn lucky that Derek had pulled off him for a breather or he might have suffered serious injury. “Jesus fucking Christ! What the-” His words died in his throat. He had to be hallucinating, because there, hovering about four feet off the ground, was Coach…well a spectral version of him anyway.

“It’s been a lousy day. Got any Scotch?”

Stiles rubbed his eyes trying to make sure he was a)not dreaming, and b) seeing things clearly. Yes, it was indeed Coach’s ghost floating around in his bedroom of all places. Hold the phone, why was he in Stiles’ bedroom in the first place?

“Stiles, why is there a ghost in your bedroom?”

Leave it to Derek to be so on the head… _Heh on the head. That’s a good one, Stiles._  “The hell I know.”

Derek tugged his boxer briefs and jeans up to his hips. “Better yet, why is the ghost of Coach Finstock in your room?”

Stiles groaned. “Great question.” Before he could ask, Derek gave him a quick kiss and left for work. Stiles turned to glare at coach. “You ruined my pre-work-shift blow job! Why the hell are you here?”

Coach grabbed a book off the shelf and began to leaf through it. “That is a great question.”

Mouth agape, Stiles stared at him. “You can manipulate objects? How? You died like two weeks ago! Everything I’ve read said that takes ages.”

“You profoundly disturb me. You know that?. Apparently, I have a lot of built up rage, or so my afterlife adviser, Janice, says. Accelerates the process.” He tossed the book over his shoulder, and it hit the floor with a thud. “Crap.” He repeated the process with another book. “Crap, total crap, BORING, crap, crap, crap.” One by one, most of the books in his bookcase hit the growing pile on the floor. “No offense, Bilinski, but your reading habits suck. You got any Tom Clancy?”

Groaning, Stiles threw up his hands in defeat and grabbed pajamas. “I’m taking a shower. Do not follow me!”

 

*   *   *   *   *

 

Stiles tossed and turned in bed. His sleep since his new “friend” showed up had been restless at best. Scott had, on more than one occasion told him he looked terrible. Gee thanks, Scott. However, he did manage to get away from Coach for a night by sneaking out and staying at Derek’s. He couldn’t do that every night; his dad would not approve.

The man had been more than supportive about their relationship (Especially, since it started after his eighteenth birthday), but Stiles figured practically moving in with him, would be too much for his dad to handle.

“I’m bored.” Coach threw a tennis ball in the air, making sure to hit the ceiling each time before he caught it.

Stiles covered his head with his pillow, clamping it tightly over his ears. “Go away!”

“I can’t. I’m assigned to you.”

“Why me?”

"Believe me, you’re no ray of sunshine either."

"Assigned to me? What in the hell does that mean?” He sat up.

“Apparently,” he decided to start tossing the ball against the wall behind Stiles’ head, “for whatever reason, I’m like your own personal apparition. Not sure what I’m supposed to do, just that I can’t leave until I fulfill my objective, whatever the hell that is. I have a meeting with Janice next week. Oh, and you’re the only one that can see me. Although, why the hell your boyfriend can see me is beyond me.”

“So can the rest of my friends. Pretty sure it’s because they’re all supernatural entities of some sort.”

"How bout that." Coach missed his target, and the tennis ball bounced off Stiles’ forehead, a feat which Coach found hilarious. “That is insanely therapeutic. Should have done that years ago." He decided to continue throwing it at his head. “That explains a lot.”

After the fifth time the ball struck his forehead, Stiles snapped. “Would you knock it off?”

“Now look what you made me do. Dropped my ball.”

“I don’t fucking-”

Coach blew the whistle hanging around his neck.

“Why are you-”

He blew it again.

“Do you have an off sw-”

Again. “Heh, I forgot how much fun that is.” Once more, the shrill noise echoed throughout Stiles’ room.

“I hate you so mu-”

Again.

“That’s it!” Stiles jumped out of bed and ran downstairs to the kitchen. His trip was so short, when he returned Coach was still in his room blowing that damned whistle, though he had decided to levitate on his back, hands behind his head. Stiles lay down a line of salt at the window and door. Grabbed his pillow and blanket and retreated downstairs, praying that his trick worked.

It didn’t.

 

*   *   *   *   *

 

“Don’t you have anything better to do than making my life hell?” Stiles asked as he shut the driver’s side door after school. Coach seemed averse to spending any amount of time in the building, a fact for which Stiles was more than grateful.

“Nope.” Coach licked his thumb and turned the page of the latest copy of  _ESPN: The Magazine_  in Stiles’ backseat.

“Where’d you get that?”

“Swiped it from your room. Speaking of your room, where do you hide your porn? There has to be something I’d find interesting…you know something with women.”

“Gah!” Stiles pulled out of the parking space and joined the long line out of the parking lot. “I hate you so much. Couldn’t you just moan like a normal ghost?”

He pointed a finger at him. “Don’t tell me how to live my life.”

Stiles looked at him in the rear view mirror. “You’re a ghost! Live isn’t really the word I’d use.”

“You know, Bilinksi, you always were too big of a smart ass for your own good.” He grabbed a pen from the floor in the back and started to poke Stiles in the cheek with it. “If I connect the moles on your face, do you think it would make a picture?”

“If you weren’t already dead, I’m pretty sure at this point I’d be planning your murder. I hope you know that, and it wouldn’t be pretty… or quick.” The list of obscenities Stiles grumbled under his breath as he drove to the grocery store was long indeed.

 

*   *   *   *   *

 

Coach’s aversion to the school did not, unfortunately, carry over to anywhere else. The man, ghost, whatever, had an opinion on every item that went into the cart.

“Veggie burgers really? Didn’t take you as a fan of sawdust.”

Stiles groaned under his breath and continued shopping.

“You know, Lucky Charms kind of contradict the healthiness of the veggie burgers.” When the 12-pack of Coke hit the bottom of the cart with a rattle, Coach actually laughed.

Stiles leveled him with a glare that said ‘I fucking hate you.’

“You know, for someone who eats as much junk as you do, you sure are skinny.”

Stiles made sure to slice through Coach with the package of Red Vines in his hand.

“Hey!”

“Oops. Didn’t see you there.” Stiles whispered, a sly grin on his face. Coach quit his antics for the rest of the time in the store, and to Stiles’ surprise, didn’t say a word while he loaded the groceries into the back of the Jeep. He needed a nap, a nice, long, two week nap and an exorcist. Well, he’d already roped Deaton into finding a solution for the second part of that. At least another month. He’d be stuck in this hell for another month. Fuck his life.

“So, where to now? You think maybe we could hit up the liquor store?”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Did you happen to forget the legal drinking age in California, Coach? I can’t buy you booze.”

“But your boyfriend could.”

“You’re a ghost! Whatever you drank would run right through you. I don’t want my carpet to reek of stale whiskey forever. I’ll have you know; I occasionally have sex on that floor. Or I would, if you’d ever leave me the hell alone!” He jacked up the volume on the radio in hopes that it would drown Coach out. Nope. The spirit just spoke louder.

“You seem tense!”

If Stiles gritted his teeth any harder, they would have cracked. Finally, he pulled into a spot on the street across from the bank and took out the check he’d received from his grandma. She’d forgotten his birthday this year (Not that he blamed her. She was an old lady. Sometimes they forgot things), but she’d more than made up for it with a far too generous gift (What? He was her only grandchild. So sue him).

His hope that Coach would remain in the car was dashed as his spectral shadow floated along behind him. Thankfully, he didn’t need to go inside, because on a Friday afternoon, it would be a madhouse inside. Instead, he sauntered up to the ATM on the outside of the building to complete his transaction. Eight hundred dollars richer, he crossed the street at the crosswalk.

Suddenly, a truck came down the hill and blew through the stop sign. Stiles would have become a human pancake if, at the last second, he hadn’t been yanked back. What in the hell? Who did that?

He turned to see his jacket collar still in Coach’s hand. “Did you….did you just save my life?”

Coach dropped the coat like it personally offended him. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, Bilinski. You so profoundly disturb me, I would sooner die than ever consider such-” He stopped when he saw his hand start to glow. “What the hell is going on?” All around him lit up in a wash of bright light. “Are you kidding me? That’s all it took to get out of this death sentence?”

Stiles, still shaken, cocked his head to the side to stare at him. “You’re already dead.”

“Shut up, Bilinski! Or I’ll tell them to send me back, and I. will. never. leave.” Just as he was about to completely fade into the light, he got in one last jab. “Oh, and by the way, that  XXL condom was a gross exaggeration… but yeah… stay weird, Bilinski.”

 

 

 


End file.
